Nursery Rhyme by Sam Smith

‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses’: A Critical Essay, by Dr. Samuel Smith

‘It’s not the words that give a nursery rhyme a purpose, it’s the lyrics,’ said Daniel Batinski in his seminal essay on the subject of connotations and hidden meanings in nursery rhymes, titled ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’ (New York: Idle Press, 1986). In the essay, he discussed the tale of the ‘Three Blind Mice’ as being an allegory about the songwriter developing a fear of unknowingly eating mice tails when having spaghetti bolognese for dinner and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ obviously being a metaphor for performance enhancing drugs in 10-pin bowling tournaments, among others. However, there was one nursery rhyme missing from Batinski’s essay which I felt has some hidden meanings that are worth discussing; that nursery rhyme is ‘Ring a Ring o’ Roses.’

It is a deceptively short nursery rhyme, only one stanza long, although this does not stop it from being completely full of connotations intended by the author, whom has asked to remain anonymous due to reasons that will become evident further into this essay.

The focus on flowers throughout ‘Ring…’ suggests a positive atmosphere for the piece, but these are metaphors for a darker, disturbing topic, that of hoarding. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hoarding as ‘…The act of stockpiling a large number of items, to the point of being kind of ridiculous,’ (England: Oxford University Press, 2004). It has recently gained attention from major television networks and many shows have been made about the subject, but ‘Ring…’ is the first recorded reference to hoarding in popular media. The roses and posies mentioned shows that a collection is growing in the author’s house, probably including other well known flowers, such as daisies and stinging nettles. We can tell that the hoarding has become a problem, as the author points out that he has… ‘a pocketful of posies.’ He has run out of room in his house and is forced to carry around the collection in his trousers. Whether or not ‘Ring…’ is meant as a cautionary tale, a warning against hoarding, or as a small tip about finding space for more items, is still up in the air.

The last line of ‘Ring…’ is perhaps the most controversial for it’s time. ‘We all fall down.’ There are many interpretations of this, but the only one that is backed up by my intense research is that this refers to 1997, when our friendly neighbouring star, the Sun, decided to stop shining for us everyday. On the 31st of May, 1997, we were plunged into darkness as the Sun threw a small, interstellar tantrum and became selfish with the light emanating from its gargantuan mass for five months. This was a big subject in most newspapers for at least three weeks, inspiring incredibly creative headlines, such as ‘Dis-SUN-peared!’ from The Daily Mail (England: News Corp., 1997). Because there was no light, many people found falling over becoming a regular part of their day, so much so that in a survey carried out by The News of the World documented over 80% of people carried plasters around with them wherever they went (England: News Corp., 1997). The author wanted to reference this in ‘Ring…’ because falling over must have been a big part of his life in those five months.

Honestly, no matter how much research I did, I could find no interpretations for the third line, which consists of one repeated word; ‘Atishoo! Atishoo!’ While the repetition is obviously meant to emphasise the phrase, the meaning has obviously been lost to the ages. It is probably about having a cold or the Plague.

As we can see, ‘Ring…’ is an incredibly deep and complex nursery rhyme with many different ways to interpret every line, although the ones within this essay are more than likely the correct interpretations. It is a complete mystery as to why Batinski did not include it in ‘The Songs We Sang As Kids Were All Actually About Totally Dumb Stuff’. It is as if he thought that it was about something quite obvious and just ignored it. I suppose it is lucky that some of us cannot get out of an analytical mind frame when reading, no matter what it is. We are programmed that way. It is a blessing and a curse.

Cuban Heat by Sam Smith

There was a three month period in my life where I would put something odd in the microwave once a day. I had just moved into my first place by myself, so I felt pretty free from rules. Mum would have never let me use the microwave for entertainment purposes. It was for cooking in her house. I used it to warm up my socks on a cold day a couple of times. I did the same with my pants once, but it’s quite hard to know how long pants need to be in the microwave to get them warm but not so hot that they burn some sensitive areas of my body. I have the scars to prove it.

Finding things to put in a microwave wasn’t too difficult. At first, I just looked around my flat, picking up old books and toys from boxes that Mum forced me to take because they were taking up room in her house. Books don’t really do much unless you leave them in there for a long time, then they start burning in a weird way. All the pages curl up and darken. When you take it out, the middle pages are sort of soggy. Toys just melt if they’re made of plastic. Not as dramatic as I thought it would be as a child.

Soon, I started to run out of stuff and I started to steal things just to microwave them. Beer mats, potted plants, sandwiches, fancy Cuban cigars from some prick at a club, hats, oranges. All sorts of rubbish. It taught me a valuable lesson. Everything reacts when it’s exposed to enough heat. I started to apply this theory to situations in life. I argued more with people, stared at them until they felt uncomfortable, shouted every once in a while to see what would happen. It was a strange time in my life.

The novelty of putting things in the microwave eventually wore off when someone complained about the smell of burning plastic coming from my flat. I guess they thought I was making bombs or something because they rang the police, whom swiftly turned up at my door. They shouted at me to get on the ground. I reacted. Currently I am serving a five year sentence for throwing molten plastic at a police officer. Prison is no fun.

Grey Lace by Sam Smith

‘Great lakes?’

‘What?

‘You want me to wear great lakes?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Oh. Did you tell me I had great legs?’

‘No, I didn’t say that either. But, that’s not to say that-’

‘How rude! I take great pride in my legs!’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you, it just wasn’t what I said!’

‘Fine. Did you tell me about a race? Someone called Ray is running a race?’

‘That’s not even near what I said.’

‘Fine. What did you say?’

‘I asked if you had got your hair done recently.’

‘Oh. I did go to the salon last week.’

‘It looks very nice.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You should probably get your hearing checked or something.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Moonlight Bay by Sam Smith

Whenever I get scared or worried or anxious or depressed or tired or uncomfortable or ill or feel emotions that I do not want to feel at all, I remind myself of things that I enjoy but can’t have at the moment, as it reminds me that I am only human and sometimes humans will not always be happy and want things that we are not allowed to have all the time. Being reminded that I am human makes me feel better. Two days ago I was sat on a bus and it was a very hot day and the bus was very busy because it was late and everyone had finished work and was going home and suddenly there was a wasp on the bus and people started to panic because of the little bug, especially one woman who said loudly that she was allergic to wasps and it was very loud and I was anxious so I started to make a list again. Here is the list.

The colour blue. Televisions. Plug sockets that look like faces. Books on tape. The sound of static. Hypothetical situations. Dogs wearing hats. Spiderman. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. The sky. Long movies about journeys to unknown lands. Icing sugar. Evaporation. New socks. When I smoked a cigarette. A moonlight bay that I visited once in Spain as a child with my mother and my big brother who said that he was bored and wanted to go exploring but I liked sitting near the end of the bay looking out at the sky the sky the sky and the sea and not being able to see a difference between the colour of the sky and the sea because it was so dark that they were the exact same colour even thought I tried very hard to explain this to him. Equal numbers of pens. Wolves. Myself. BLOCK CAPITALS. Right angles. Leaves. Two and a Half Men. Religious imagery from the 17th century. When magazines have CDs stuck to the front cover. Dice.

An old man hit the wasp with a rolled up copy of The Times and everyone had calmed down.

Potato Cake by Sam Smith

It was a game we played as children. Honestly, we weren’t the coolest bunch of kids, but we had our own little group and we had fun, so it wasn’t that bad at all. There were seven of us in total, more than enough to play.

Sometimes the other groups would pick on us or make us the butt of their jokes; we were frequently called “The Butt of the School”. Kids can be mean. That’s just what they were to us. Mean. But we were mean too, which is where the game comes into play.

Let me set the scene. We would just be sitting on our table, eating lunch or working or something, and one of the other groups would say something stupid to us. It was normally either they sporty group of the group that wore sunglasses during P.E., because no matter how obvious and cliché it is, that shit actually did happen.

Anyway, yeah, they would say some little remark and we would immediately start to play the game. Whoever said the first word to us would be the focus. We knew most of the pupil’s names and where they lived because it wasn’t that big of a school. A little glace would go around the table and we would have our focus.

The next day, we would all take the day off school. We weren’t smart and didn’t really care about grade or anything stupid, so it wasn’t a big deal. The meeting place would be behind the focus’ back garden at five in the morning. Everyone knew what to bring. A mask, a hammer, some E-Z Bake cake mix and a bag full of potatoes.

The focus would leave their house around eight or so, which was when we would go to work. Hopefully no one else would be home to hear us break the door down with our hammers. Sure, there were probably easier, less destructive ways to get into a house, but that’s not really the point. In the kitchen, some of us would get to work on making as much cake as we could. It was usually chocolate cake. The rest of us would start filling every nook and cranny with smashed up potato. Cupboards filled to the brim, under the beds, in the toaster, shoes overflowing, behind the radiators, between the pages of books and magazines, in VCRs, atop the mantelpiece, stuffed into trouser pockets, down drains. It was kind of awesome how much we could get done in an hour.

When the cake was cooked, we would sit at a dinner table or something communal and eat the cake. It was like a little present to ourselves for taking the mean comment so well. We would leave afterwards.

No one is sure how this game got started, but we damn well finished it.

Soft Steel by Sam Smith

‘Soft steel, what bloody use is that?’

‘It can be shaped into things I guess. What do you want to make?’

‘I don’t know. I’m still a bit sceptical about this whole thing.’

‘Look, there’s nothing to do worry about. I’ll make something.’

‘What are you making?’

‘Watch.’

‘It’s a boat.’

‘I hate boats.’

‘What’s wrong with boats?’

‘They’re bullshit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Boats are stupid. Just use a plane you bloody idiot.’

‘Fine, hold on.’

‘Are you making a plane?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m scared of flying.’

‘Christ, what do you want me to make?’

‘Me.’

‘You?’

‘Me. Make a tiny steel me.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to be the strongest man.’

‘But it will be made of soft steel.’

‘Make it.’

‘Please let me sleep.’

‘No, you have to stay awake. Show me something else. I am bored of soft steel.’

‘Here is a small animal.’

‘Okay.’

Indian Ivy by Sam Smith

Someone threw it out. Drove out of town to avoid suspicious eyes and left it on the side of the road. Not really a surprise that no one picked it up. Everyone has new, flat screen televisions nowadays anyway. This old CRT, a battered bulky box with a dark grey screen wasn’t really worth hoisting up into the boot. On the side of the road it stayed.

People noticed it for sure, but they didn’t take it. All sorts of messages were scribbled or scratched into the plastic. Most of it obscenities, some of them in other languages. The screen had to be kicked in at some point. Break all the glass, expose the out of date technology inside the body.

Soon enough, it was moved further away from the road by some kind soul, spilling some sharp triangles of glass and broken metal. Into the bushes, where it would stay. Animals tried to nest inside it, but that was a bit dangerous, considering all the pointy bits. Plants grew into it until they eventually grew out of the screen, ivy leaking over the edges. Nature can be more accepting that people.

Cheeky Wink by Sam Smith

The day the Sun started to die was anti-climactic. No one noticed. Sort of like when people get a weird disease or something, they don’t really think about it. They might be a bit off, maybe they don’t even feel any different than the day before, but they have begun to properly die. Not the silly dying that pessimistic people constantly go on about that begins at birth. We already knew that being alive means we’re going to die. They’re mentioning it because they only just realised that and think it’s deep and might get them laid. The real catalyst for our death is subtle, like it was with the Sun.

A little flicker. That was it. For a split second, the Sun didn’t project rays of light through our solar system. It took eight minutes for this neglect to reach us, and we didn’t bat an eyelid. I didn’t see it. I think it was cloudy that day. People in California or India might have had a better chance of seeing the flicker, but it wasn’t reported. Maybe a bird flew above them. Maybe they were wearing sunglasses. Maybe they didn’t notice.

It started happening frequently in the following months, which was when we started to find it disturbing. Like a suffering light bulb, the Sun flipped from light to dark in several instants. A bright day interrupted by tiny moments of complete darkness. Scientists had ideas, and they were predominantly right, although they kept looking for a different excuse. A religious leader was quoted as saying it was just a cheeky wink from God. This enraged some people for the trivialisation of the situation and enraged others for the inanity of that statement. Mostly, we just worried.

Lampposts were left on all through the day so people could still see through the flickers. Drivers were advised to constantly have their headlights on. Torches were carried in handbags and backpacks, just in case. Every time the Sun went dark, the same thought flashed through our collective minds. What if it doesn’t fire up again?

We accepted our fate. A new ice age was predicted because all the time the oceans weren’t heated was adding up. People started stocking up on woolly coats and hardhats with lamps on the front. Feeling safe while being alive is important. Some found assurance in religion or technology. I found comfort in inevitability.

The Sun went out and soon so did we.

Little Black Dress by Sam Smith

There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch. She always took a slightly longer lunch break on Friday’s, because, hey, what the heck, right? It’s almost the weekend! She needed to get in the mood to relax early, otherwise it might just fly past. There’s a line in a film about sometimes life moving pretty fast, but she couldn’t remember it. In fact, at the time, she wasn’t even thinking about it. There was a note on Susanna’s desk when she came back from lunch.

She read the note. It was written in shorthand. To most people it would have looked like a toddler had gone a bit mental with a biro, but Susanna knew what it said. It was a poem.

“Your black dress, covered in flowers. Every bloom is an explosion on the night sky. Fireworks.’

It was a poem. A short one. Susanna didn’t like poetry, and even more she didn’t like this poem. She looked down at her dress. Casual Fridays were quite easy for her. She owned a lot of dresses. This one was her favourite. It was yellow with polka dots.

Love is blind, but the poet was just an idiot.

Wind Chime by Sam Smith

Greg didn’t quite understand the band that his daughter wanted to go see. Jessica had asked him if she could go to the gig, but because she was only thirteen she needed an adult with her. There was once a time when Greg went to see a lot of bands play, but that was way before Jessica was born. He agreed to take her, partially because he could rarely say no to his children, but also just to see if he still enjoyed music.

The band was called When We Find The Answer Hidden In The Tundra We Won’t Tell A Soul. He only found this out when he saw their name on a poster outside the Ampnigrande Theatre. Jessica had called them WWFTAHITTWWTAS when she asked to go, which Greg thought was just an odd made up word that people were saying nowadays. That stuff seemed to slip by him now.

Jessica was the youngest person there. She might have been the only person who needed a parent to bring them, but Greg wasn’t sure. Everyone else in the crowd had extraordinarily odd haircuts. Some were slicked back like a ‘50s greaser, others were shaved at the sides with long, dirty strings of matted hair hanging over the edge but some very styled, without one piece out of place. Most of the women had the exact same haircut; a bob with a curly fringe. They all wore clothing that looked like they stole it from their grandparents’ closets. Lots of cardigans and flowery dresses and sensible shoes. No one would look up from their phones for anything. This wasn’t how Greg remembered gigs.

WWFTAHITTWWTAS walked on stage quite a bit later than had been written on the A4 sheets of paper pinned to the doors of the theatre. There were nine band members, all dressed smartly and serious looks on their faces. They barely acknowledged the audience, who in turn barely acknowledged the band. The houselights came up, displaying the array of odd instruments lined up on the stage. Two very different drum kits, three guitars, one with more strings than the others, a double bass, a xylophone, a selection of flutes and panpipes on a small table, a set of wind chimes, a church organ, a keyboard, a scarily complicated looking brass instrument and at the centre of it all, one microphone. Despite there being a lot of band members, they were outnumbered by the instruments. The band members walked around and picked up an instrument, seemingly at random and stared down at the ground. The tallest band member shuffled up to the microphone.

‘Hey. If at some point any of you want to come up and play something, just kind of go for it I guess,’ he said in a strong American accent. He tapped the microphone a couple times and looked at his fellow band members, nodded, and turned back to the microphone. ‘We are a band. This is a song.’

Greg had trouble hearing sometimes and he wasn’t too sure if he was getting the music. It was difficult to understand what was making what sound. The members of WWFTAHITTWWTAS stood stoic but their instruments flailed wildly on their bodies, making a horrible drone. He was a bit mesmerised by the whole thing. The first song last eight minutes and the only lyric he could decipher was ‘We are all liars.’ When the droning stopped, he kind of clapped, but really he just placed his hands together a bit harder than he needed to.

The second song started and it was very similar to the first, a low rumbling with sporadic twinkles. He glanced to see if his daughter was having fun, but she wasn’t standing by his side like she was before, she was squeezing through the crowd of people to the stage. Jessica tiptoed up the steps and stood beside the wind chimes, which were hanging on a stainless steel frame. None of the band members even seemed to notice a little girl up there with them. She grabbed the frame and started to shake the wind chimes. Greg couldn’t hear them very well. A couple of the small metal cylinders dropped off. Jessica had an intense look on her face, starring deep into the wind chimes. She stayed up there for the rest of the gig, never ceasing to shake the frame. Even between songs when the band were fiddling with their own instruments, she was making a sound that reminded Greg of being right years old and sitting on his grandmother’s porch during a wicked storm and watching the wind chimes get knocked around by the heavy breeze and the hail stones pinging off them and stepping back as the fell to the painted wooden floor.

The gig finished and everyone left. Jessica scooted up to her father and smiled. Greg patted her head.

‘Did you have fun, Jessy?’ he asked.

‘It was okay,’ she said, clutching one of the broken wind chime cylinders in her hand.

Golden Rambler by Sam Smith

'And the Golden Rambler goes to...' she said. A short drum roll before the very attractive host opened the shiny envelope. She read the name and didn't look too surprised. 'Benjamin DeClement!'

Benjamin stood up and looked so proud of himself. Walking up to the podium on the small stage, he waved at a couple of his friends and gave a cheeky wink at the woman he was almost flirting with.

He held the small, plastic trophy in one hand and started his speech.

'This is the biggest thing that's happened to me since my...'

And it just went on from there.

African Adventure by Sam Smith

Two elephants sat on a bench in the middle of the jungle. The one with bigger ears, called Marcus by his friends, nibbled delicately on a rather large sandwich. He looked like he was having more fun than the other elephant. He had a longer trunk but no sandwich. This elephant was called Jacob by his mother, but no one else knew that. They all called him Trunky.

‘Where did you get that sandwich from?’ asked Jacob/Trunky.

Elephants are quite secretive animals. They tend to not share their emotions or their plans for the weekend. Marcus was actually quite an open for an elephant.

‘None of your fucking business,’ he said.

Jacob/Trunky prodded Marcus in the side with his big, stumpy foot. ‘Go on, tell me.’

Marcus sighed. ‘Fine, I found it in a chest at the end of a big cavern.’

It’s true. He did find it in a glowing chest after fighting his way through the cavern, which was filled with skeletons that had swords and wizards. The whole thing was really quite an ordeal.

‘Was it worth it?’ Jacob/Trunky sat back on the bench, stretching out his legs.

Marcus shook his head. ‘Nah, not really. I was hoping for some purple loot and sandwiches are a bit shit anyway.’

They both nodded slowly and watched the world pass by for a little bit.

Flamingo Fun by Sam Smith

The Exotic Burger Van was fantastic. I’m really disappointed that it got shut down. It was run by this old guy who used to wear a blue hairnet over a backwards cap and had a face like a bulldog with stinging nettles in his mouth. He carried a gun tucked in the back of his trousers, the silver handle poking out whenever he turned around to put a burger on the incredibly dangerous looking grill. He didn’t speak much. I always tried to start a conversation, because he seemed pretty interesting, but all I ever heard him say was, “Onions?” His name might have been Gareth.

The small white trailer was always in the same place, at the back of the Homebase/Halfords car park. It never moved. There was an old Ford Mondeo attached to it, but I think Gareth just used to sleep in it. The sign on top of the van read “The Exotic Burger Van” in red block capital letters on a background of jungle leaves. Under the small counter where Gareth would lean out and hand you the food, there was a crude painting of a snake eating a burger made of its own still-attached tail. Thinking about it, that was pretty weird.

But the burgers! They were incredible! The first time I went there was a total accident. I was walking home at six in the morning after camping with a few friends and I was desperately hungry. I smelt the meat on the air and almost magically ended up in front on The Exotic Burger Van. I looked up at the whiteboard menu. Every burger was made of some ridiculous animal. Hippo, kangaroo, shark, it all sounded crazy. I couldn’t see just a regular hamburger and was a bit put off, but I was far too hungry to move from that spot. I ordered a flamingo burger, expecting it to be kind of like a chicken burger from KFC. It wasn’t. It was so much better. It was like eating the hand of God. I cried a little as I ate it.

I thought I might just have still been a little stoned from the night before, so the next day I came back to The Exotic Burger Van and got another flamingo burger. Again, it was absolutely amazing. For the few months, I came back every day and got a weird burger. I couldn’t be happier about my choice. There was doubt in my mind that the burgers were actually made from what they called. As if Gareth could actually get his hands on grizzly bear meat through some shady dealings to feed it to the hungry people of Bristol. Honestly though, I didn’t care. I just kept eating them.

When I found out that Gareth had been arrested for poaching wildlife from the Longleat safari park, I did feel a bit bad, but mostly I was just mad that Gareth got caught. I broke into The Exotic Burger Van, but it had already been emptied by the police. Where am I supposed to get my fix of stupid animals now? I can’t go back to eating beef and pork. It’s just not the same.

Volcanic Splash by Sam Smith

We sat on the floor in front of the waist-high bookcase and scanned the shelves, which were packed with DVD cases.

‘Star Wars?’ She pulled out the copy of The Phantom Menace, and started reading the blurb on the back.

‘If we’re watching Star Wars, we’re not watching that bloody one,’ I said. ‘It’s just there to complete the set.’

She nodded and slid it back into the row. ‘I wondered why it still had the wrapping on.’

‘Because it’s not worth the hassle.’

‘What about Back to the Future?’

I shook my head. ‘I watched them last week.’

‘Lord of the Rings?’

‘Those were a gift from my aunt. You will notice that they are also still in the wrapping because those films are bullshit. Three slow, repetitive and boring movies all to throw a ring into a volcano. Might as well watch red paint dry.’

She sighed. ‘Well fine, what do you want to watch?’

My eyes flicked along the shelves. In my head, I found a reason to not watch any of the DVDs I owned. ‘None of them.’

She hummed. It wasn’t a musical hum. It was quite an annoyed hum. A single, flat note.

I stood up and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’m fine with whatever you want to watch.’

‘Mission Impossible?’

‘Nope.’

Liberty Blue by Sam Smith

‘You’re colour blind?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So what colour is that?’

‘Red?’

‘No, it’s Scooter Red.

‘Oh.’

‘Idiot.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘What colour is that?’

‘Like, grey?

‘Christ, it’s Liberty Blue.’

‘Liberty Blue?’

‘Yeah, like the colour the Statue of Liberty is.’

‘What, grey?’

‘The Statue of Liberty is blue.’

‘No, it’s grey. It’s made of metal or stone or something.’

‘It’s blue! You’re really colour blind.’

‘Yes, I know. But it’s grey.’

‘It’s blue!’

‘Fuck off! I’m wikipediaing it!’

‘Fine, but it’s blue.’

‘No, look at that. It’s grey.’

‘That’s blue.’

‘Shut up! It’s grey!’

‘We can’t agree on this! Your eyes are stupid and can’t see things good.’

‘Oh, wait. Wikipedia says that the Statue of Liberty has turned blue over time because of rust and some other nonsense.’

‘See? It’s blue!’

‘I guess it is.’

‘So you only trust Wikipedia?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh. Idiot.’

Russian Velvet by Sam Smith

‘What about Russian Velvet?’ he asked, throwing the paper bag in the bin. He brushed some crumbs onto the pavement and a twitchy looking pigeon stared longingly at them, bopping around as if trying to find the best angle of approach.

I wanted him to know what a stupid suggestion that was, so I stopped mid chew, tilted my neck in a very odd fashion and raised an eyebrow. In case he didn’t get the message, I felt like I should probably verbalise some sort of response rather than just giving him the most unfriendly of looks. ‘You are the dumbest fuck.’

‘Why?’ he said. As he sat down on the bench, I continued to chew my bite of sandwich. I hoped that he would use this time to think about what he said and maybe offer an explanation. But no, he just kept looking at me, completely bemused as to why I thought “Russian Velvet” was horrific.

I finished chewing. ‘You have to understand what I am about to say is completely honest. We’ve known each other for a very long and I think we’re past the point of lying to make sure we don’t hurt the other’s feelings. Okay?’

He nodded.

I sighed. ‘Okay. So what you are telling me is that you want to name your child, your unborn daughter, “Russian Velvet”?’ I made sure to enunciate the last two words carefully just so he could hear how ridiculous they sound.

He nodded again.

‘That’s a fucking horrible name. It’s like you want her to become a stripper or something. You might as well name her “Tip Generously”.’ After thinking about it for a second, I felt the need to add, ‘Don’t even think about considering that as a name either.’

‘I wasn’t!’ he scowled.

To make a point, I tucked my sandwich in the paper bag. This showed him that I was mentally involved in the conversation. ‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did! It seems you don’t have much talent in picking names and just read them off of toilet roll packages!’

He did something vague with his hand, like he was trying to discourage an eager bumblebee.

More of a point needed to be made, so I put my hand on his shoulder, a classic move by anyone’s standards. ‘You have to promise me. Do not utter those two words as a suggestion for your child’s name to your wife. Shit, don’t even say them together to anyone. Forget that one of those words exists. Probably velvet. I think you can get away with never saying velvet again. You would have a struggle not saying Russian at some point in your life. But, for the love of whatever, don’t name your child “Russian Velvet”.’

He rolled his eyes and nodded. The pigeon seemed to coo in agreement as it picked away at the crumbs of the floor.

Venetian Crystal by Sam Smith

“What are you eating?”

“Crystals.”

“Why are you eating crystals?”

“I was talking to this lady in the shop that always smells funny in town. You know, the one that sells baggy clothes and carpet.”

“The Bazaar Bargain?”

“Yeah, that one. Well, the lady, right? She was telling me about how all the crystals she was selling could, like, change stuff about my life. There were ones that could cure my sicknesses, could rebalance something inside of me with a funny name, and there was one that could get me laid!”

“There was a crystal specifically designed to get you laid?”

“Well, she said it might help me be luckier in love, and that’s like the same thing, right? Anyway, I bought all of them.”

“You bought all of the lady’s crystals?”

“Yeah man.”

“And you’ve been eating them?”

“Yeah. That’s what you’re meant to do with them.”

“No, you’re not. You’re meant to hold them or rub them on yourself. Something like that.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.”

“Stop eating them.”

“But what if they still work from inside of me?”

“They won’t. That one isn’t even one of the magic sort of crystal. You’re just chewing a fancy wine glass.”

“Yeah, I ran out of the ones that the lady gave me so I got these at the car boot sale going on at the church.”

“You’re bleeding heavily.”

“I know.”

Picnic Basket by Sam Smith

Picnic baskets were just a gateway addiction for Yogi Bear. Every day he would beg, borrow and steal himself a picnic basket and would gorge himself on what he found inside.

But soon, he started to grow a resistance to towering stacks of BLT sandwiches and bags of unidentifiable treats that it just wasn’t enough. He started to take the picnic blanket along with the basket. He would line the food up along the middle of the blanket, roll it up and smoke it like an oversized, checkerboard spliff, just to get the stolen swag into his system faster. After taking a large drag from a PBNJ, cocktail sausage and Pringle doobie, Yogi once coughed so hard that a few speckles of blood dripped from his mouth onto his tie, which he had neglected to iron. This gave him an idea.

A couple walked into Jellystone Park one Tuesday evening. Yogi watched them carry their picnic basket to a secluded area where they ate until they could do nothing but watch the sun set and fall asleep leaning on each other. Yogi had contained himself by grinding down and snorting a Scotch egg, but even then his hands were shaking and he walked out of the bushes. He loomed over the man and starred at his skin. Inside the man, Yogi knew all the picnic molecules were swimming around in his human blood, just waiting to be poached. Yogi pulled out the needle that he found in a cave that was frequently used as a crack den and held it to the sleeping man’s forearm.

Yogi thought to himself, “Is this what I’ve become?”

Mademoiselle by Sam Smith

When I was about fifteen, someone told me that I have a “very French facial features”. This came as quite a surprise to me, coming from an incredibly British family. I’m not even sure that we have any other nationality in our blood. Maybe a little bit of Icelandic on my mother’s side. But apparently the shape of my nose, the way the sides of my lips curl when I smile and something about my eyebrows makes people think I look French.

For a while, I thought nothing of it. I’m not one of the British people who still seem to harbour resentment to the French for I guess the war or something. It’s just my face. It might look French. It might look stupid. Ultimately it doesn’t matter because it looks like me.

But when I was eighteen, a girl came up to me in the pub and asked if I was French. I was just standing at the bar waiting to get served. I wasn’t doing anything even remotely French. The girl was very pretty and I got nervous and told her the truth in my charming West Country accent.

‘Err… No, I’m from Bath. It’s kind of near Bristol.”

The pretty girl was less than impressed. She made some small talk with me about Bristol being kind of gross and then walked back over to her friends without inviting me.

Similar situations like that occurred before I figured out what to do. It was starring me straight in the face. On a night out for a friend’s birthday, a pretty girl with glasses asked me if I was French. I smiled, making sure to curl the ends of my lips a lot more than usual and contorted my eyebrows. Forcing my voice to go quite a lot lower than normal, I whispered one word that I was sure to interest her with.

‘Mademoiselle.’

Or at least I tried to say that. It’s very hard to say French words when you’ve been raised in the South West. I ended up sounding less like a charming French man and more like a confused tourist. Needless to say, the pretty girl walked away almost immediately and I don’t blame her. I have since stopped smiling, started to get my eyebrows plucked on a monthly basis and I have an appointment for a nose job booked for early next year.

Lunch Date by Sam Smith

Here is a detailed list of things that a pigeon will not eat. The research for this list comes from personal experience gained due to having an hour lunch break from my job at Phones-4-U but no one to share it with and a wide selection of food in the Sainsbury’s along the road. If the pigeon picks up the food and puts it back down after one bite, it still counts as not eating it. These instances are marked with a *. Other exceptions will be included in the notes section and marked accordingly.

Cold chicken tikka. Lettuce*. Blue cheese. Red pepper. Green pepper. Yellow pepper*. Fish fingers*^. Quorn deli style ham slices. Raw egg. Custard. Dark chocolate. Frosties. Polish sausage. Cat food (rabbit). Heinz baked beans. Sainsbury’s brand baked beans*. Jelly^. Mint ice cream. Beef Stroganoff baby food. Ham slices*. Cherry Muller corner yoghurt*. Brussels Pâté. Tomatoes^. Hummus. Strawberry jam. Onions*. Rice^. A birthday cake*. Cous cous. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle (cooked). Sausages. Sweetcorn*.

^Fish Fingers: The pigeon attempted to eat this, but it was frozen.
^Jelly: Pigeons are scared of jelly, no matter what flavour it is.
^Tomatoes: When confronted with a tomato, a pigeon will appear eager, but quickly become dissatisfied when close up to the tomato.
^Rice: Included only because the pigeon ate one grain of rice and promptly died.

Conclusion: Pigeons are pickier than a wife would be.